


Waiting

by LondonGypsy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hope, M/M, POV First Person, Post Reichenbach, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's a broken man after #TheFall but there might be a little light at the end of the tunnel for him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> As always a huge TY to my lovely Ladies: SuperWhoLockGypsy and dudeufugly for beta'ing and BritPicking - what would I do without you?! Love you!! 
> 
> I wanted something Post-Reichenbach but I didnt want the 'usual' stuff so...  
> (And I dont know why but it's much easier for me to write from John POV in the first person - just happens...)

I hate waiting.

I am a patient person, yes, and I'm used to waiting.

But I've waited my entire life.

For school to be over, for life to start, for the world to open up for me.

Later, I was waiting for the first job, the first time living on my own, the first time operating all by myself.

It was always worth it.

The worst phase of waiting was in the desert, surrounded by nothing but sand and heat, dust and endless days of sitting around, waiting for orders.

I am quite used to waiting, but that doesn't mean I like it.

Right now, I'm hating it with every fibre of my being.

It's bitter on my tongue and heavy in my limbs.

My step is slow and just getting through the day is becoming harder and harder.

The days I can manage, the work at the surgery keeps my head occupied and my thoughts at bay.

The nights I can hardly handle.

When 221b is asleep, when the rooms are dark and too quiet…that is when my brain starts to work.

Images, scents, feelings, all of this is flooding my ordinary thinking, keeping me from sleeping, from resting.

So I lay awake in my bed, or most likely lately, on the sofa, wrapped up in an old dressing gown while my mind keeps wandering.

I shouldn't be wearing it; it still smells like him, that odd mixture of chemicals and his aftershave.

But I can't. 

It's one of the only things I still have to hold on to, the only item that reminds me of him.

I still see him sometimes; in the tube, at the grocery store, at the post office.

It's the curve of a shoulder, tilted just the right way, or the flash of sunlight on dark, tousled curls that catch my attention.

Or a hand, stretched out to hail a cab, the glimpse of a black coat through coiling people on my way home.

I know it's not him but my stupid heart doesn't. It starts to beat faster, just to stop when it's disappointed once again.

God, I hate waiting.

Time goes by, yes, but so slowly that if it passed any slower, it would go backwards – which, to be honest, I'd rather like.

But no, it's time to move on now.

The past is over and I can't turn the clocks back, no matter how hard I wish for that.

Sighing, I sit back up, throwing a glance out the window.

The night is almost over, the patch of sky I can see is taking a dark shade of grey and the stars are fading.

Slowly I scramble up and pat into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

While I wait, my hands find their way into the pockets of the dressing gown, playing absently with the small piece of paper in it.

My lips curl into a smile; it’s not much but it feels good.

I pull the paper out; it has been folded and re-opened a little too often but I can still read the few words scribbled on it.

It took me quite some time to decipher his hand; his was worse than the worst doctor's, and I've seen many. But after a while I was able to read what he'd written and it helped me a little to move on.

_Have patience, John._

Just that. But those three words are my anchor, my light in this grey, cold world.

Those three words give me hope and give me the strength to go to work every morning.

It's hard but I can do it; I'm stronger than I look. Hell, I survived a war, I can survive this as well.

The water's boiling and I pour it into the mug, taking it with me back into the dark sitting room.

The sun is coming up, filling the room with its diffuse light, painting the dark blue sky with golden and pink patterns.

I wander to the window, watching the sky get lighter, trying not to think of the day the door to my...our flat is going to be pushed open.

I suppose it’s going to be night; I have no idea why, but I don’t think he's coming back in broad daylight, that’s not his style.

I might still be on the sofa, watching some mind numbing telly; maybe I'm dozing in this weird space between wakefulness and bad dreams.

My gaze will slowly drift towards him, sliding over him, trying to notice all those little, or not so little, changes that must've happened in the passed time.

Sipping my tea I'm trying to imagine how he'd look like.

Still the same? Bloody cheekbones and coat, trying to be cool, acting as if he'd just returned from whatever case he's on?

Or changed? Casual clothes and different hair? Perhaps he'd have his hair cut, even dyed?

Bloody hell, he stopped being a private detective ages ago. He simply became too famous so lots of people would know him, would still recognize him. 

But would I? 

Would I recognize the man I had dedicated my life to the second I met him? Or would I walk past him on the street, not knowing who he was?

I shake my head; nah, I know him better than anybody else in this world, even better than his own brother. I would know .

It's dull and fruitless, though; I need to stop. I will know when the time has come. Until then I have to carry on.

Rubbing my eyes to clear the fog in my head I turn and the mug in my hand drops to the floor. And with a clarity I couldn’t have imagined, I see the last few drops spill over the carpet, slowly getting soaked up by the thick fabric.

But quickly my gaze returns to the figure by the door, dark and tall, leaning against the frame, silently watching me.

Everything is very sharp and crisp; I can see the dust floating in the beam of early sunlight painting a bright path over the floor to just end at his feet.

Black, that’s my first impression; everything is black, his shoes, his trousers, his shirt, the coat and the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. The only light part is his face, almost glowing in the twilight that fills the room; it seems to hover in the shadows, like a ghost, and I swallow hard at the view.

His pale eyes narrow and he tilts his head, just a tiny bit, and a strand of hair falls in his face.

It's gotten longer than I could have ever imagined, falling in gentle waves over his shoulder and suddenly I'm standing only inches away from him; breathing in his scent: chemicals, of course, damp wool - when had it rained, last night? - and something earthy and wrong and I shake my head unconsciously.

“Fertilizer,” he states, and his calm voice startles me.

I want to ask him why he smells of fertilizer, but there are no words coming out of my mouth; I try again but I can't.

He raises an eyebrow at my weak attempt to talk.

“You look like a fish, John.”

I snort amusedly, feeling a grin spread over my face.

He shakes his head and there's that curl again, falling into his eyes and suddenly my hand's up, stroking it away. 

We both freeze; his eyes widen for a second, and I can feel my heart beating in my throat and my fingertips resting against those ridiculous cheekbones.

His skin is cool, like the marble his face sometimes reminds me of, and I can't resist running my finger along that razor-sharp line that makes his face so outstanding.

There's a huffed sigh, only audible to me because I'm standing so close to him, and then I'm drowning in rough wool, squeezed against that long, lean body. For a moment I can't move, can't breathe but I don’t care, breathing is boring anyway.

I sling my arms around his waist, pressing hard against him, inhaling his scent deeply, convincing myself that he's really here.

His hair tickles over my face, his hands lay hard and very warm on my back and I can feel his deep breaths getting a little more uncontrolled.

He doesn't let go and neither do I. And so we stay like this, cherishing the sheer solidity of the other one.

Eventually he loosens his grip around me but doesn't drop his hands, he only leans back and searches my eyes.

And finally, _finally_ , he smiles that tiny smile, the smile that’s only mine, that nobody else ever got to see; it’s reserved for me, his flatmate, his doctor, his only friend in the world.

Relief washes over me, fills my body with warmth and without thinking I reach up, twisting my hand in that mop of hair and pull him into a quick kiss.

He jerks back, of course. I should've known that he wouldn’t know, and he's frowning at me. He, the world’s most brilliant, most clever man, who could see through every disguise, wouldn’t see the most obvious thing. This madman, this insane genius wouldn’t be able to see the little signs I've thrown at him over the years, blind to the desire of the human heart.

“John, what...?” but I shake my head, smiling widely and bury both hands in his hair, sighing at its softness.

“Just shut up and let me show you something,” I murmur, pushing myself up and brushing another kiss over these beautiful lips I've been dreaming about every waking moment.

He stills again but he doesn't push me away. High on adrenaline I pull him closer, mouthing tiny butterfly kisses all over his lips. They are full and soft, and my tongue flicks out, touching carefully against that silky flesh.

A breathless huff vibrates through his limbs and his jaw goes slack, not resisting me anymore. Timidly, I slide my tongue between his lips, searching for his, moaning quietly at the overwhelming heat and the feeling of kissing him.

As I find his tongue and tenderly curl mine around it, my fingers instinctively tighten in his hair and I _feel_ him groan into my mouth.

He makes no sound but he's nudging against me, his fingers digging into my back, and as I angle my head just that tiny bit, he's instantly deepening the kiss.

He's vibrating now, I can feel it against my chest, and I know he's registering every single movement, every small reaction my body gives him, cataloging and analyzing but that's nothing I didn’t know before.

My fingers stroke through his hair, running over his scalp, wanting to sooth him, calm him, tell him it's okay to just let go.

“God, I've missed you,” I mumble as we break the kiss, gasping for air.

He chuckles lowly and the sound of that, the rough, small laugh of his shoots a cascade of white hot need through my body and I can't hold back the moan that breaks free.

He tilts his head and the multicolored iris almost vanishes as his pupils blow wide and black.

He studies my face, and even though I feel heat creep over my cheeks I don’t look away.

“I'd reckon I've missed more than just what is obvious,” he says. It would have been a normal – well, for him, normal – conversation, were it not for the rough undertone in his smooth voice and the faint blush on his own cheekbones.

I laugh; I can't help myself.

“You're such a git sometimes.”

He's still watching me but as I lean in to brush another kiss over his lips, he moans softly and eagerly meets my mouth, wanting more.

“Greedy bastard,” I whisper, biting gently at his lower lip before I take a step back, trying to regain composure.

He honest-to-God growls but doesn't come after me.

“Tea. And toast. Let me guess, you can't remember the last time you ate?”

He has the decency to look ashamed but the muttered “Thursday” I can still hear.

I only shake my head and motion for him to drop the coat. Watching him doing that is such a thrill that I can't hold back the wide grin as he looks at me, raising a questioning eyebrow in a “and what now?” manner.

I grab his hand and entwine my fingers with his, buzzing with joy at the contact.

“Food for you. And then you tell me everything.”

I drag him along into the kitchen, ignoring the protesting grumbles.

I make him sit at the table that’s terribly empty, but I know it won't stay that way long – which gives me another happy shiver.

I busy myself with making tea and finding some food in the fridge, and although I avoid looking at him, I can feel his sharp gaze on me every single second.

“Thank you, John.”

It's quiet, almost too soft to be heard, but nevertheless I hear him.

Before I can ask – he knows I would, he's still Sherlock Bloody Holmes – he answers my unspoken question.

“For having the patience, for waiting...for trusting. I couldn’t explain it, it would have been too dangerous for you... even that small hint was a risk. I...” he hems before he continues, “I wasn’t sure you'd understand...” 

I snort but don’t turn to him, not yet anyway. I wait, just a little longer; I am good at that.

“I'm sorry. But it was necessary to leave you in the dark... Moriarty knew too much, I had to make sure I got rid of all of his spiders before I could come back.”

He's quiet for such a long time that I’m almost out of reasons why I should not face him but then he speaks again.

“I knew you'd eventually understand... so thank you...John...for being patient...”

Warmth fills my chest and a deep affection for that mesmerizing and mad creature spreads through my heart.

“Always,” I reply as I turn around, smiling at him, “I'd always wait...for you.”

He looks at me, and for once I can see Sherlock Holmes lost for words, stunned at the trust and the faith I have in him.

I walk the few steps toward him and brush another curl out of his baffled, beautiful face.

“Always,” I repeat softly and press a gentle kiss on his forehead before I return to the counter to bring him his tea.

 


End file.
